They say that in the end time heals all wounds. I don't know, they may be right. But it really is too easy to be right that way. I mean, how could they go wrong when they never tell how much time it takes to heal? In my case, two years obviously wasn't enough -- as I found out in the lounge bar of the Belmont Hotel in Dallas, Texas.
Even before the divorce was final I had moved to New York. I got the job and all the benefits -- except the huge penthouse apartment, obviously. I didn't need that anymore. I was a freshly divorced single man. I just wanted to drown myself in my work in order to forget.
The job part went very well -- I just failed at the forgetting. I'll soon be a vice president and on my way to the board. But all the real motivation seems gone. The rewards just aren't enough to kill the pain, which at the start, hardly allowed me more than a few hours sleep at night.
Granted, it isn't healthy to mourn that long over a common slut. But she was Myriam, remember? I loved her. And you'd have to shoot with bigger cannon to kill the love I felt for her.
After a few weeks I even went to see a shrink. For half a year, true as clockwork, I walked into her wood-paneled office once a week, feeling like Tony Soprano -- and I didn't even get to kill anybody.
The good doctor looked the part, so I did the best I could. But after half a month I already knew she wouldn't heal me of my lingering depression. She was nice company, though. I needed a patient ear those first months -- even if I had to pay for it. Which makes me wonder now why I didn't feel the urge to pay for other female services in this city that never sleeps. God knows I hardly slept. My bed was empty. So was my apartment, so were my weekends. I just felt too numb, I guess.
Erica changed all of that.
I met Erica at the tennis club. It was by the Chelsea piers and open day and night. Playing there was an excellent opportunity to do something positive with my sleepless hours. A colleague invited me and after playing a few times, I became a member. There were always people around who were looking for a partner. One of them was Erica. We soon played regularly, often twice a week.
She was a big woman. Not as in fat -- there wasn't an ounce of that on her. She was a tall blonde athlete. It took me weeks to get my neglected body in good enough shape to avoid being royally thrashed each time we played. I even worked out twice a week to help with my conditioning. The time in the gym cleared my mind and punished my body enough to add a few hours of sleep to my barren nights.
After showering, we often had a bite at the small club restaurant. Bagels and juice. Or a shake. A tall mint tea for Erica. It became quite a nice tradition after a while. I started looking forward to it. Erica was great company. It must have been hard work for her at the start, 'cause I didn't talk much. I had become a master at sucking the blood out of any conversation. If it threatened to become even remotely emotional, I just made it ricochet off my armor into the innocent realm of the weather -- or the latest movie.
Erica changed that one evening. Our tennis game had been remarkably vicious, ending in a 7 to 6 tie-break set for her and another one for me. The shower did me the usual world of good. The salmon bagel tasted great. And Erica was glowing. Her skin blushed and her moist hair shone in the designer lights.
"Why do you always bring these people with you, Bruce?" she said. Her pinky removed a few crumbs from the corner of her mouth.
I stared at her. "People?"
"Yes," she said, almost off hand. "The woman behind you. I can't see her face, but she must look great. And a man. A few men, I'd say. They are rather out of focus, though."
I tried my blankest face. I guess it needed laundering for she didn't fall for it.
She chuckled. "Dearest Bruce," she said, "ever since we met I knew you were only half here. It's the way you defuse every conversation. The unhappy pauses whenever I probe past the day you came to New York. And now this expression you're wearing -- what does it mean? Are you suggesting that I am wrong?"
She grinned. All she had said sounded light and casual. But her eyes were neither. Then she shrugged. It made her tightly-packed tits tremble. "Well, hon," she went on. "It is none of my business, of course, but I sure hope that woman behind you would stop controlling our conversation. I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep it going, this way."
Ever since the disaster with Myriam I felt panic when people scratched at the wall I had built around me. And no one had scratched as effectively as Erica did right then. The panic shoved me into defense mode. From there to indignation was only a small step. I threw my napkin on the table and rose.
"I have no need for this, Erica," I said through clenched teeth. "Take your charity elsewhere." And I left the restaurant.
***
It took me just an hour to see what an ass I had been. But I needed a week to get myself past my pride. I skipped two tennis evenings. I also neglected my workouts. In short, I had effectively sent myself back to the quagmire.
Monday morning of the second week I got a call on my cell. I saw it was Erica. Just noticing the name made me freeze. I could not move my finger. I let her go directly to voice-mail.
It took me a few minutes to listen to her message. She sounded cheerful. "Bruce? Just to let you know: failing to appear means you've lost two games by now. It's the rule. I am two points up, honey. Three and you're out! Should I bother to come at all this week? Let me know."
God, did I feel silly. Here was this wonderful woman who had single handedly pulled me out of my shit and I left her without a word. Just because she'd had the gall to care for me.
I was there, of course, that same evening. Don't ask me about the anguish and the sweat. I was there. So was she. And she beat me 6 love, 6 - 3. Those three games were only because she pitied me.
Afterwards, she sipped from her fruit shake. "Sorry, Bruce," she said. "I was nosey. But I couldn't bear seeing you like that, week after week after week. You must have gone through hell."
I watched her and something broke. For the next half hour I spilled the whole story. Once I started, I couldn't stop. It was as if there was a third person telling it all. I watched and could not stop him.
Erica just listened. A dark pink blush rose from her throat. When she at last spoke, she was angry. "The goddamn whore," she hissed. "And here you are, more than a year later, still broken into a million pieces. Only half the man you could be. It's a damn shame."
Her hand was on mine. Amazing how tender it could be after whipping my ass at the tennis court. "Bruce," she said. "Forget the bitch. Please do me a favor and forget her. Promise me. She's just not worth it."
Now don't think there was sex involved, or ever would be. From the start, I knew Erica was a staunch lesbian. To keep me from forgetting that, she sometimes was picked up by her girlfriend, Marlene, after we played. At those occasions she clearly demonstrated the difference between our growing friendship and the love she had for the pretty petite girl who had the cutest habit of making her English sound more French than her French.
Since that conversation, our friendship spread from the tennis court to life's wider realm. We went to movies and exhibitions together, we dined and shopped together. Usually, there were only the two of us, sometimes Marlene joined us.
